The Adventure of the Jade Seal
by Steampunkmagic
Summary: Victorian AU: When a shipping magnate dies of a Chinese poison, London's most famous detective Sherlock Holmes teams up with Joan Watson, the daughter of a Chinese diplomat, to solve the case. Battling crime lords,and each other's passions these detectives may just change the course of history.
1. The Party

**This is based on a picspam of this idea I posted on tumblr so I decided to actually write the full thing.**

**Also this is an alternate history version of Victorian London so that Detective Bell can still be a Detective and Joan can wear cool outfits, and other things you'll discover along the way.**

**As always I love comments and reviews!**

**Enjoy ;D**

* * *

Bodies turn in time with the melody of a string quartet in dull revolving patterns. The crowded ballroom rings with the chatter of a multitude of voices and clinking glasses and plates. It is a distracting if not altogether unpleasant cacophony. 

Bored, bored, bored. Sherlock stares at the chandler absently calculating what it would take to make it fall and effectively end this dreadful evening. Richly overdressed party goers cannot waltz when there are crystal shards all over the dance floor. Though that would also lead to panic, and humans are so predictable when they panic. All the screaming, running about, and generally being ridiculous. 

He fidgets in the expensive clothes Captain Gregson forced him to wear on pain of death. The excessive fabric around his neck is slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain. That plus all the idle gossip of London's most elite figures set his teeth of edge. It is rather like listening to chickens cluck. 

"I still do not understand why I needed to be here." Sherlock huffs. 

"We got a tip something's going to happen tonight." Gregson responds dryly, looking like a pillar of justice against the wall in his dress blues. 

"You have plenty of your own men." He points out, fingers twitching against his thigh. 

There are two lawyers pretending not to know each other, over by the buffet table, but they are clearly lovers. Sherlock wonders why they even bother, since they cannot hide their body language. 

"Not all my men are you." Gregson says, abet reluctantly, he never likes to stoke Sherlock's ego if he can help it. 

"True." He jerks his head in agreement. "Yet, all I have seen at this hell so far is underhanded business dealings and stilted ex-lovers, nothing remarkable by any means." 

"And let's keep it that way." The Captain heads off to the other side of the crowded ballroom towards were Detective Sergeant Bell is lurking in the corner. 

Internally grumbling, Sherlock attempts to focus on anything other than the deducible lives of the people around him. He could learn half the nation's dirty laundry by the end of the night if he wanted, yet that would not help him in any way. This party is one of the most important events of the year, every major politician, businessman, and diplomat all milling about together in one location. That is also why it is a security nightmare, which forces nearly all of Scotland Yard -and apparently one Consulting Detective - to be in attendance as well. 

Sherlock almost wants something to go wrong just to end his boredom. He could be back at Baker Street with his bees and a good book. Alas, instead he is going to die here, in a stuffy royal blue waistcoat, of asphyxiation due to ladies perfume. Hopefully someone remembers to put that on his grave. 

Halfway through another turn around the room of colorful dresses and dark suits, Sherlock spots someone who looks equally irritated with the evening's proceedings. A young woman of oriental origin - Chinese he'd wager by the shape of her eyes and her remarkably detailed traditional dress - is being lead around the dance floor by a spectacularly rotund man in his late fifties. From the pinching of her perfectly sculpted lips and the line deepening between her brows, the woman is trying hard not to hit her dance partner. 

There is always something about a person that belays their intelligence, from the way they hold themselves, to the way the move their hands. That intelligence can always been found in the eyes. People often say eyes are the windows to the soul, and while Sherlock does not hold with such superstitious nonsense, it does have some merit in that regard. In the case of the glaring young woman, Sherlock can unquestionably see intellect sparkling in her dark eyes. Quite a bit of intellect actually. 

"Mind if I cut in?" Sherlock taps the large man on the shoulder sharply. Before the opium magnate - the company's label is on his cufflinks - realizes what has happened, Sherlock sizes the girl's hands and whisks her away. "Thank you." He calls back cheekily over his shoulder. 

"Well that was rude." The woman states in perfectly accented English, falling into step with him easily. Her gaze narrows in suspicion. 

"Better that then let you stab him with one of your hair pins." He pulls a face at her. "I doubt that would go over well with this particular crowd." 

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. It is a common occurrence whenever he opens his mouth - also people often try to punch him. 

Sherlock glances back at the business man who is now ambling back towards the tea sandwiches. From his pasty skin and sweaty brow it is only a matter of time before he suffers a coronary. Not that he is one to judge, his own eating habits tend to revolve around whatever is within arm's reach at the time. Also lots of breakfast foods. 

"It was clear he was upsetting you from your expression." He explains lightly, moving in step with the music. Dancing is not his forte, but his new partner seems graceful enough. Her embroidered purple and red robes lightly brush the ground. "I thought it fit to intervene." 

She tilts her head making the gold and jade beads trailing from her hairpins sway. It is interesting she has made no attempt to appear English, like the other people of foreign birth at the event. It is though she stepped out of the book on silk paintings he has in his library. 

"Thank you, though I had it under control." She says. "I've dealt with worse." 

From her tone he does not doubt it. "Never the less, I was considering setting the curtains on fire and this is probably a much healthier distraction." 

She laughs, her whole face brightening. The song ends making the people around them clap politely. Sherlock lets go over her immediately returning to his normal ridged posture. 

"Joan Watson." She smiles, holding out a delicate hand. 

"Watson?" He frowns quizzically at the purely English name, taking her hand. 

Joan sighs good-naturedly. This is something she's been asked many times before. "My grandfather was British Navy and my parents found it best to give me an English name. It helps since my father works in diplomatic trade relations." 

It made sense in a backwards sort of way. "Sherlock Holmes." He adds quickly. 

* * *

Joan is intrigued by her pseudo knight in shining armor. Crooked bowtie, messy hair, and socially uncomfortable. She likes his abrasive mannerisms instantly. Also she recognizes the name. "The detective? I've read about you in the papers." 

He scrunches his face at that, rocking back on his heels. "The media loves its dramatics." He says dismissively. 

They continue to stand in the middle of the parquet floor as another song begins. People waltz past them; several shooting curious glances in their direction. Sherlock seems almost oblivious which is refreshing. He doesn't look down his nose at her or speak to her as if she were a child - or a concubine as with the whoremonger she had just been forced to dance with. It is almost as though Sherlock does not realize that is what society expects him to do. 

"Are you here with the Yard?" Joan could not help noticing the uniformed officers standing around the building all night. Though the men are mostly likely there simply for protection, it does make her a little nervous. 

Sherlock tugs at his clothes, his gaze carefully moving around the room. "I certainly wouldn't be here otherwise." He says frowning with distaste at their opulent surroundings. 

Joan smiles at his petulant expression. He is quite an unusual fellow, in a charming sort of way. "I would have liked to avoid the evening as well. There is nothing here but money and politics, and those are two of the most uninteresting things on the planet." 

Something like approval colors his features at her comment. He is about the say something more when he freezes, staring at a point over her shoulder. Joan spins around following his serious gaze and locks in on what he sees immediately. There is a middle aged man with a bushy salt and pepper mustache leaning against the floral papered wall opposite them for support. His top hat falls to the floor when he doubles over wheezing for breath, hand clutching at his own throat in desperation. She can see the flush of his skin even from this distance which spells nothing good. 

Sherlock takes off dodging between couples and scandalized women. Joan lifts her robes so she will not trip on the heavy silks and sprints after him. Decorum does not matter if a man is choking to death. The other officers converge at Sherlock's shout, rushing in from all directions. 

The man slides to the floor just as they reach him, his body slump and unresponsive. Joan drops to her knees beside Sherlock and they roll the man onto his back. He is a heavy death weight. As a woman she was not allowed to practice medicine, yet that never stopped Joan from studying it. Every medical and herbalist text she's ever read flashes through Joan's mind as her eyes categorize the symptoms before her. Slow pulse, shallow breathing, and tightly contracted pupils. The man is fading fast. 

"Poison." Sherlock mutters softly. 

All she can do is nod in agreement as the man stops breathing altogether. Joan kneels, in a shocked-silent room, beside a man she has just met and watches as the last spark of life leaves the body of a man she does not know at all. Every clock in the world seems to have stopped ticking in that one moment. 


	2. Seeds of Something

**Hello my lovelies! **

**I was pleasantly surprised by the reaction this has gotten and it is just so much fun to write! **

**Note on layout of 221B: It's just the Brownstone with a new address.**

**Note on Science: _Don't worry about it._ I keep to facts when I can, but do take a little creative license here and there... **

**I'd love to hear for you all! Enjoy :D**

* * *

_**Ch.2**_

_**-Seeds of Something-**_

* * *

"This is insane!" Her mother shouts in mandarin. The cymbal crash of her arm bangles accenting her frustrations, making Joan wince. "People die all the time. There is no reason for you to get involved." 

Joan counts her breaths trying to maintain her inner calm - something she has considerable trouble with where her mother was concerned. "Okay yes, people die. But they do not die like that." She says firmly, eyes flashing like ebony knifes. Why can her mother not understand why this is so important? A man just died in her arms. Joan wants to know why! 

"Hubert King was murdered." Joan says slowly as if that will make her words sink in. "Probably in that ballroom and because of that I am involved in this wither you like it or not." 

The two women stare at each other over the parlor table, a pair of immovable mountains, waiting for the other to blink first. Her mother only ever wants what is best for her - or at least what she thinks is best for her daughter. Yet Joan is no wall ornament waiting for a husband to add her to his collection. Something her parents are beginning to panic over as she nears her 23 birthday. 

Joan has very different ideas about her life. 

After a minute her mother let out a world weary sigh of defeat, shoulders slumping under her violet taffeta day dress. "Please, honey, I am simply worried about you. You cannot go gallivanting around London un-chaperoned and you certainly cannot visit an Englishman's home without one! People may talk." 

Joan always wonders who these 'people' are. "Mr. Holmes is investigating the killing, who else would I speak to? It will be fine, Mother." She pats her mother's hand, soft from lilac talcum, reassuringly. 

The lines of concern in her mother's features do not soften, yet she does not argue further. 

Joan smiles sunshine bright at this small allowance of freedom. "I will be back before supper." She calls grabbing her long crimson coat and dashing out the door. 

Her dove gray button hook shoes click against the pavement as she skips down the front steps to the sidewalk. Two suited men strolling on the street look up at her in surprise as she flashes past to hail a cab. Joan knows she stands out against the dreary backdrop of London, lithe form dressed in pink silk cheongsam and a tailored British jacket that fell to mid calf. She is entirely out of place. 

A dappled mare pulls up alongside her its docile, sweet gaze eyes her carefully searching for hidden apples. The cabbie, who sat atop the carriage trundling along behind, tipped his hat. "'ere to Miss?" His cockney accent is nearly as thick as his mustache. 

"221B Baker Street." She takes the offered hand up into the cab. 

"The detective, eh?" He chuckles at her surprise, turning back to steer the horse. "Everyone knows Mr. Holmes, Miss. Everyone who works the streets anyways." 

With that rather cryptic remark they set off into the swirling fog which lay thick on the cobble streets. Hoof beats echoing off the early morning gloom. Joan does not believe in signs, but she had to shiver at the damp chill. 

* * *

Clyde watches Sherlock work with a level of disapproval that he thinks the tortoise must have learned from Ms. Hudson. He drops arsenic into a beaker doing his best to ignore the judgmental wrinkly gaze. 

"This is becoming insufferable." Sherlock reaches over to spin the turtle to face the opposite direction. "You're supposed to be on my side." He huffs. 

The table in front of him is covered in beakers, bubbling pots, and colorful powders with sinister smells. Clouds of dark midnight storm hues float above his head, thickening by the minute, issuing from the experiment before him. The sulfur fumes are sure to bring his landlady down on him, but Sherlock has done worse without Ms. Hudson deciding to shoot him. 

The concoction brewing on the table suddenly turns a brilliant shade of emerald. 

"Bollocks!" 

Negative again. This is the sixth test he has done and he still has no clue what poison killed Mr. King. It usually took him less than a minute to deduce cause of death. But so far all Sherlock has determined is that it is **_not_** arsenic, nightshade, hemlock, lead, or monkshood, or anything else it could have been. He kicks his chair in frustration. 

"What in heaven's name are you doing in here?" Demands a prim voice in alarm. 

Ms. Hudson stands in the doorway of his parlor looking every bit as horrified as he expected her to. The blonde woman runs for the windows in her usual loud, feather ruffled way. "You are going to kill us all!" 

Sherlock grumbles at his landlady in put-on irritation - he knew he probably would have starved to death ages ago without her meddling. The storm clouds begin to waft out into the cool damp breeze, slowly clearing the room. Ms. Hudson helps the smoke along by waving a worn copy of Shakespeare's sonnets at it furiously. 

"Why are you barging in her e in the middle of my work?" He groans, dropping melodramatically into an overstuffed chair and rubbing his stubbled features. 

"There is a woman here to see you!" By her tone one would think this revelation is nothing sort of a miracle, all things considered it is probably true. What lady would come here? "A pretty woman, by herself no less!" 

Ms. Hudson suddenly turns, floral hat wobbling precariously, to level a hawk like glare at him. Sherlock sinks back into the cushions in instinctive alarm. 

"And just so you know, I am going to stay right here. So if you try anything forward mister I will stab you with the fire poker. Now straighten your shirt, dear." With that she flounders back out of the room before he can respond. 

"What does think I'm going to do?" Sherlock asks Clyde, who has finally rotated back to face him, in offense. 

The tortoise merely blinks at him. 

"Well you're a lode of help." Frowning he gets up and tugs at his waistcoat, only making his appearance more askew. 

The sounds of female voices come from the entryway, causing him to jump to attention, as though his spine were an iron rod. Sherlock is never sure precisely how to act towards the fairer sex - or anyone, if he is being honest. At least now he knows who his guest is. 

Joan Watson is shown into the parlor and he is struck by the oddest of observations upon seeing her among his décor. She fits in perfectly. Her very being fits seamlessly into the eclectic mishmash of the room.

"Miss Watson." Sherlock feels off balanced by the strange errant thought. "How nice to see you again." 

"I apologize for coming unannounced." Joan bows her head politely. The gold flowers in her hair sparkle in the weak sunlight with the movement. 

"No matter." He claps his hands together and waves her towards the shabby sofa awkwardly. "You are here about the case, yes?" 

She laughs lightly, breaking some of the tension between them. Tension which is probably his doing, not hers. "I guess that's obvious." 

"Why don't I get us all some hot tea?" Ms. Hudson smiles, once Joan has taken her seat. She gives Sherlock a stern warning glance before adding. "I shall only be gone a moment." 

"Hurry back! I might murder her while you're getting out the cakes!" He petulantly yells after Ms. Hudson's retreating form. 

His guest raises her delicate eyebrows in a quizzical expression. Joan seems more amused than worried, however, which fits with what Sherlock has deduced of her character thus far. Watson is far from a shrinking violet. 

"My landlady seems to believe I'm some kind of cad and I will do something horribly untoward the instant her back is turned." 

To her credit, Joan's cheeks only color slightly as this remark. "Do you often do untoward things then?" 

Sherlock makes a show of thinking it over, bouncing on his heels. "Only according to some people." 

"Some, but not all?" 

"No, not all." He grins, flopping back into his favorite salmon pink armchair. Joan is remarkably unmoved by his mannerisms and that has Sherlock instantly intrigued. 

"What progress have you made with the case?" She questions abruptly, leaning forward in her seat.

"Frightfully little I'm afraid." Sherlock admits with a tired breath. Admitting difficulty with anything is unusual for him, yet he does not mind so much right now. 

"Then I have something which may help." Joan declares with an upward curve of her lips. She slips a hand into a hidden pocket fold of her pale rose dress and produces a small white apothecary bag. It rattles as she hands it over to him, indicating it must contain seeds of some variety or other. 

"I believe this is what the killer used to poison Mr. King." 

Carefully Sherlock opens the tiny packet to inspect the tiny brown-black seeds nestled inside. There innocuous shape is recognizable to him for several reasons, many of them unpleasant. For this particular bit of plant matter also generated poisons of a less toxic variety. 

"Poppy seeds." He glances up at Joan, gray eyes serious, regarding her with new insight. "Of course. It is a special breed is it not?" 

Joan nods, a spark in her eyes at his reaction. "I recognized the distinctive blue discoloring of the victim's fingertips. So I went searching the herbalist shops in Chinatown." 

She really does fit in here. Sherlock steeples his fingers, leaning towards her. "Miss Watson, how would you feel about doing some investigating?" 

"Sherlock!" Came Ms. Hudson's outraged voice behind him. 


	3. Mazes

It is funny to be doing a Victorian!AU of a Modern!AU of a Victorian story ... Sherlock-ception !  
If you think about that one took long your brain will hurt :)

I really cannot believe the response this silly little story has gotten. Seriously thanks guys you are wonderful!  
Your support really inspires me to keep writing :) _*throws heart confetti at you*_

_Story Notes:_  
Abydos is the name of a place in Egypt not a type of poppy I just made that up.  
Limehouse is real though.  
and Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit is a part of *New* Scotland Yard - like I said before Alternate History 

* * *

**_Ch.3_**

**_-Mazes-_**

Scotland Yard is a rather unfortunate location for most people, full to the brim with mad men shrieking, whistles blowing, and a layer of grease on every surface. Sherlock finds it calming, there are too many things to focus on at once which forms a perfect investigative hum. 

It is in this mess of squalled humanity and brass buttons that lives the _Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit_ and its head, one Captain Gregson. Sherlock sent a message ahead with one of his irregulars to let him know he and Miss Watson were coming - the boys of Baker Street are quicker than the post by far, so they should be expected. 

Joan floats at his side as they make their way through the maze; the curve of her brow is the only indication that she is uncomfortable. He assumes it is due to the obvious lingering stares of the officers and prisoners alike, which follow where ever she moves. It is even setting his hairs on end, how can she stand this on a daily basis? Does this occur on a daily basis for her? He must keep track. 

Just as they reach the doors to _Homicide_ a young constable steps in Sherlock's path looking somewhat embarrassed. The apple cheeks and round blue eyes sparks Sherlock's memory, Edison, the boy's name is Edison. 

"I am sorry Mr. Holmes, Sir, but I can't let your girl in. Some professions the Cap'n doesn't allow." Edison tips his hat to Joan with a wink. "No matter how pretty." 

Sherlock huffs in irritation opening his mouth to begin a tirade on how the man was clearly never going to succeed as an investigator if he actually thought his companion, with her clean skin and personally tailored clothing, could be a doxy. What an imbecile. 

Or at least that is what he was going to say before Joan speaks first. 

"What profession would that be?" She asks with false-innocence, her accent now a hundred percent Oxford British. "They do not let domestic ambassadors into police stations now days?" 

The constable turns scarlet and makes a gagging sound. Sherlock raises his eyebrows in interest wondering for a moment if the man has managed to swallow his own tongue. He has never seen what that would do to a person and would find it a very informative experience. Yet, Edison continues breathing, if haltingly so. Pity. 

"Of course they do Miss - ah - Ma'am. I - uh- I mean… Go right in." 

"Thank you, constable." Joan smiles leading Sherlock passed him. 

"That was remarkably well done, Watson." He bounces after her nodding his support of her passive aggressive tactics. 

She shoots him a sideways look - the likes of which nearly makes lighting crash in the small precinct - to show how little she requires his approval in this matter. Sherlock likes that, though saying so would most likely irritate her further, most women he meets seemed to have to backbone bred out of them. 

The Captain waves them into his office without further ado, standing up to offer Joan one of the two shabby visitors' chairs and assuming Sherlock can find the other one himself. 

"I can ask Detective Bell to fetch us some tea if you like?" Gregson attempts to be a proper gentleman, looking somewhat unsure with the presence of a lady in his office. 

Joan laughs lightly setting him at ease. "No thank you, Captain, I am quite alright." 

"Apparently I do not warrant tea?" Sherlock mutters, slumping into the old chair beside her. 

"You know where it is." Gregson says without bothering to look at him. 

He pulls a face and slouches back into the chair, as Joan's mood obviously lightens. 

"I was told you are helping Mr. Holmes on the case?" Gregson queries glancing between them with crease in his brow. 

"Yes I came across this." She says pulling out the white bag from her ridicule and handing it over. "Abydos Poppy seeds, it is what poisoned Mr. King." 

The Captain turns his steady gaze to Sherlock for conformation, slate-blue eyes serious. 

He bobs his head in assent. "We tested." 

"How common is this stuff?" Gregson pours the minuscule seeds out onto his palm and holds them up to the light for inspection. 

"Abydos only grows in a small region of China, taken from two breeds of the Afghan Province. It is quite rare." Joan informs him with a tilt of her head. 

"Which makes it easier to figure out who is buying the stuff." 

The Captain sighs leaning back in his creaking chair. "In this city? Are you kidding? There are more opium addicts than Christians walking the streets." 

He taps his fingers against his thigh. One. Two. Three. "Yes, but they cannot all be connected to our Mr. King, now can they?" 

Gregson levels Sherlock with his best stare. "You better hope not." 

* * *

Firecrackers explode in a series of teeth rattling pops down the alley as their cab arrives in the Limehouse District, the Chinatown - and almost every other kind of town - of London. The smells of curry powder and rot lay thick upon the air in equal measure. There is beauty and horror here, greatest sorrow and genius hidden behind each dilapidated doorway and watchful stone dragon's eye. 

"My mother would have an aneurism if she knew where I was. I had a runner fetch the Abydos the first time." Joan remarks, her eyes on the painted ladies whose hollow gazes follow them across the street. 

"She sounds an interesting woman." Sherlock mutters looking over her head. Joan and her mother could not be as dissimilar as he and his father could they? Perhaps so. 

Joan quiets a moment, prompting him to glance in her direction. The crease which says she is troubled is between her brows again. "She does not approve of my choices." She says softly. 

They weave their way in between bodies and street merchants, Sherlock's arm awkwardly stiff in hers to keep them from being separated by the throng. 

"Ah? Your new foray into detective work." It is not a question. From Ms. Hudson's reaction this morning he can only assume what her family's would be. 

"Well, yes _that_. But it is more my spinsterhood which she cannot understand. Every other woman of 22 at my station is married with at least two children - something she reminds me of constantly - and**_ not_** helping their fathers with government work." 

The sudden thought of Joan Watson cooking and cleaning for a faceless and personality-less man who bed her every night so she could produce his equally personality-less children is so shocking and disturbing that Sherlock freezes. The woman, who he has inadvertently also jerked to a halt beside him, could _never_ be reconciled with that particular mental image. 

"What?!" Joan gasps, falling into him as the sudden loss of momentum pulls her heels out from under her. 

Her ebony, braided-silk hair in now directly under his nose. She smells like tea cakes with the faintest hint of cinnamon. Sherlock turns to marble only relaxing as she rights herself and steps away, ignoring the group of laughing children watching from a tenement doorway. 

"Nothing Miss Watson, I simply cannot fathom the waste of investigative talent - even the small amount of talent you have shown thus far." 

She makes an irritated catlike noise at the back of her throat and rolls her dark hers eyes in response. Straightening her coat, she mutters. "Thank you, I suppose."

* * *

Joan is not entirely sure if Sherlock is insulting her or complementing her - not matter what comes out of his mouth. He is abrasive and irritating and somehow charming for it, which makes no logical sense. About as much sense as her gallivanting around Limehouse unchaperoned. So all things in perspective… 

Merchants, vagrants, and hecklers call out them in Cantonese, mandarin, English, and all variations therein, trying to sell them jewelry, potions, clothes, house wares, even a cure for baldness - which makes Sherlock glare intensely while she laughs. Eventually though they fight their way through to the small herbalist shop they need, nestled between a fruit stand and a shabby import dealer. 

It looks no different from the dozen or so others around - which is to say questionable. Joan can hardly make out the characters hand painted in red above the door proclaiming the place to be, _'Dr. Lee's'._ Looking past the mounds of dried herbs and other more unusual substances to the reedy man behind the counter, Joan seriously doubts the 'Dr.' part of the statement. Honestly, the 'Lee' is pretty questionable as well. 

Thousands of years of professional medical practice being reduced to the back alley of a dockland slum is all Joan can see as they step inside the cramped space. The contents of these soups and poultices have been curing aliments for as long as there have been aliments, yet in the western world using them is considered superstitious nonsense. She finds it rather depressing. 

"Can I help you?" Lee asks Joan nervously in Cantonese, his gaze darting towards Sherlock over her shoulder. His voice is as thin as his body, his lips twitching. 

"You are the only shop that sells Abydos Poppy Seeds, yes?" Sherlock jumps to the point stepping up to the stained, cluttered counter. His use of the Chinese dialect surprises Joan. 

Lee shrinks back in response, nearly vanishing into the shadows cast by the dried ragweed hanging overhead, though there is no threat in Sherlock's tone. The man nods repeatedly. Intimidation is clearly something the local shop owners are accustomed to expect. 

She steps in hoping to reassure Lee that they mean him no harm. Smiling with a slight, respectful inclination of her head, Joan says. "We are looking for anyone who has bought the seeds recently, most likely in a large batch. Can you recall anyone like that?" 

Lee's watery gaze focuses on her face as if to discern her character. Whatever he sees there must be good because his face brightens and he nods again, this time more slowly. 

Joan blinks, noticing Sherlock stand straighter in equal surprise. She did not actually expect the shop owner to remember anything of value, nor did it seemed did Sherlock. 

"You are looking for the Man in the Suit." Dr. Lee says in English. 


	4. Rumor Mill

**Hey I'm back! Sorry guys my life got all crazy, but I'm here to stay **

**I am going to update this by Friday each week from now on (hopefully)**

**As always love reviews!**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**~Rumor Mill~**

Lee's description painted an interesting picture. A large man in an artfully tailored black suit whose hair was shorn to his scalp, like that of a monk. Joan cannot fathom such an accountance wandering these back alley streets buying poppy seeds. 

"An Englishman with a shaved head has to be much easier to spot than an Englishman in a suit." She remarks thoughtfully as they wind their way back towards the coach. 

"Quite so, Watson." Her partner responds, not taking his eyes off their bustling surroundings. 

Sherlock is a peculiar man, from his quick speech to his wild mannerisms. He seems as if he is only tied to this world by a thread, straining to fly away because he is not truly part of it. Joan can also see that there is more to him than that outward appearance and she wants to understand it. 

The cabbie and his horse are in the same crowded street where they left them nearly half an hour ago. She is thankful Sherlock has such good relations with the London Cabbies, because there is no way they would have waited in this throng for anyone else. They would have had to walk to the bridge to hail another. 

Stepping around a fish market stall Joan finally can see their coach and she stops in her tracks. There is someone sitting in it waiting for them. 

"Oi! What are you doing here?" Sherlock shouts at the girl in their carriage. 

The girl is about fifteen with reddish hair and serious eyes, offset with a bright smile at Sherlock's words. Her clothes are faded and patched, hanging loose to make her look even smaller than she really is. 

"I take it you two know each other?" Joan says curiously, glancing sideways at his disapproving frown. 

He makes a petulant face, brow furrowing deeply as they stepped up beside the coach. "Miss Watson meet Miss Kitty Winters. She is one of my Irregulars." 

"Irregulars?" 

"His eyes and ears around the city." Kitty says giving Joan a hand up into the carriage to sit beside her. Despite everything they do not appear all that different sitting next to each other. 

"And since my own eyes and ears are presently here, why precisely are you?" Sherlock grumbles, clambering in after her. 

There is something affectionate to his rudeness, Joan notes, and the way he appraises Kitty with a critical gaze. It is almost fatherly, which she must now factor into her assessment of his character. 

The girl crosses her arms. "I heard something I thought you would want to know." 

He waits, tapping his fingers as they set off towards the bridge and back to London proper. 

"Your Mr. King supposedly had a gambling debt the size of the queen's jewels." Kitty informs them, tugging up her gray shawl against the damp evening chill. "Word is he was looking for a way out of it." 

Sherlock grins approvingly; eyes alight with manic investigative energy. "Excellent! Finally a motive we can work with." 

"Who was he in debt to?" Joan asks interested, before her partner can. 

"The Aldridge Parlor for near 15,000 pounds." 

"15,000?" She gasps in disbelief, trying to imagine anyone betting that kind of sum. No wonder he was desperate. And no wonder he was dead either! "Where did he even get that much?" 

"Skimming off his business I should assume, but we will have to see his record to be sure. That and determine who else knew about this." 

* * *

Ms. Hudson appears seemingly out of nowhere the moment they all arrive back at Baker Street. She makes a fuss over Kitty, whisking her off a clean dress, and forcing her to eat as many sandwiches as humanly possible. The girl has quiet obviously been adopted by the household, which makes Joan smile to see. 

Kitty is an unusual thing. Quiet, smart, and unerringly loyal to Sherlock. Joan can tell the girl has been trying to suss out her own character, and whether or not she needs to rescue Sherlock from Joan's temptuous clutches. It is rather entertaining to be honest, and she thinks she has passed the test so far. Also Joan likes that Sherlock has so many headstrong women trying to keep him out of trouble - for the most part anyway. 

After Ms. Hudson retires, they spread out the case files over the scared wood dining table to rehash the details for the next day of their investigation. Joan is also going through the society columns in the large stack of resent papers Sherlock has yet to throw away. She reasons that a man wealthy enough for a tailored suit with a shaved head must get a byline occasionally. Perhaps she will get lucky. 

So far the papers are mainly just exasperating. Who wore what where, and who only served watercress sandwiches at their ball. Really, is this all people care about? She flips the page over to this evening's print and nearly chokes on her tea. 

"What is it?" Sherlock glances up with interest. Somehow his cravat has become untied and his hair is sticking up on end. 

"Nothing." Joan says hurriedly, trying to hide the paper but he is quick and snatches it from her hands. She watches carefully as he turns a funny shade of plum, eyes scanning the article. Honestly, it makes her feel better even over her own acute embarrassment and indignation. 

_Famed Detective Sherlock Holmes has been spotted all over London _

_ in the company of Miss Joan Watson, daughter of Chinese Ambassador Mr._

_ John Watson. What does this unchaperoned accompaniment mean for Miss _

_ Watson's already shaky reputation as a social oddity? Nothing good we_

_ assume, for the young woman has reportedly visited Mr. Holmes' _

_ apartments unaccompanied as well. Will this result in a hasty matrimony or_

_ will the detective be able to investigate a way out of a scandalous situation?_

_ It seems we shall have to wait to find out._

Sherlock looks up from the article, his eyes wide as a school boy caught in a lie. He is clearly waiting for her to yell at him or something of that nature. That is precisely what makes Joan start laughing. 

* * *

Her fit of girlish giggles is the last thing Sherlock expected, though they may be born more of exasperation than mirth. Still he thought Joan was going to throw something at his face - like one of her walking boots. 

He glances back down at the paper again, wishing it will burst into flames or something equally suiting. This is bad and he knows it. Rumor and reputation are major factors in the day to day life of this city as much as he would rather pretend otherwise. Sherlock has been able to avoid the taint of gossip, no matter what he has gotten up to, due mostly to the fate that he is male, rich, and well known as an eccentric. 

Joan, on the other hand, as a gentlewoman can be ruined with just a few words in the right places. London society could freeze her out, her own family could disown her - he is not sure if they are the sort for that or not. Sherlock guesses he _could_ marry her if that would fix the situation logically. Baker Street has an extra room and they could work cases around the clock; it would be nice to have her particular insight at all times. 

Sherlock stops this rather wild train of thought in its tracks. If Joan knew what he was thinking, she probably would hit him with her shoe. Also it is only one stupid article, no reason to overreact. What has gotten into him lately? 

"What does it say?" Kitty tries to grab the paper out of his hands, with a bewildered glance between the two of them. 

"Just the media's usual drivel. Nothing of importance." Sherlock huffs, slipping back into his normal brisk demeanor with a jerk of his head. 

"Oh, my mother is going to be in hysterics." Joan sighs in good-natured resignation as Kitty finally manages to get the article away from Sherlock. 

"'Hasty matrimony'. That's a bit forward even for one of Mrs. Tulle's columns, isn't it?" Kitty says raising her eyebrows. "Can't she get in trouble for implying something like that?" 

"No." Joan replies grimly. "But she can make me an eternal spinster with it. Maybe I should send her a thank you card?" She adds wryly. 

"I am not sure that would go over well." 

Kitty bites her lip in concentration, looking serious. "You're not going to have to duel her father or anything are you?" 

"I would marry Watson before it came to that." Sherlock snaps. 

He realizes what he just said as both women turn to stare at him. 

* * *

**Because of course that's the most logical solution Sherlock...**


	5. Emotional Distractions

**Hello My Darlings! **

**I know it's not Friday and I hope you can forgive me being late *Sheepish Grinning* **

**Who else was emotionally slaughtered by last weeks ep? It about killed me... **

**Anyway, on with the insanity that is this story!**

**Always love reviews/comments 3**

* * *

**-Emotional Distractions-**

Sherlock is debating whether or not to run, his face as white as clotted cream. This is exactly - okay maybe not **_this_** exactly - is why he did not socialize with other people. Kitty slipped under his defenses after a spectacularly failed attempt to pick his pocket and he decided to teach her how to do it properly. 

He has no idea how Joan fits into it all. He did not work cases with people. He did not notice the curve of painted lips. Perhaps he has ingested a toxin of some kind? These kinds of emotional distractions did not happen to Sherlock. Good lord, her cannot find her attractive can he? Sure he knows Watson is beautiful scientifically, one cannot argue with the golden ratio… 

Joan's mouth falls open at his words, dark eyes blinking in obvious confusion and surprise. She is clearly wondering if she miss heard him. 

Kitty, on the other hand, stares at him like he has lost his sanity. "What?" 

"It would be the most logical solution." He huffs defensively, because it is true. It will successfully solve all their problems, though it would also be distinctly unfair to Watson. What if she wants a real husband not a spare room? From what she has said so far, she has only indicated animosity to arranged marriage. Could he have already effectively ruined her chances at anything else? 

This caring thing is overwhelming. 

Joan regains her composure, still watching him seriously as though trying to read his mind. "I doubt there is any need for such drastic solutions quiet yet." She says slowly, but her cheeks have turned pink. 

Sherlock desperately needs to change the subject to something less volatile. He snatches up the file, still laying open in front of him on the table, from before the whole gossip column debacle. And he holds it up like a shield between him and the women. 

"I was going over the financials for King's Shipping, which the Captain sent over, and I have already spotted certain discrepancies. Clearly Hubert King was indeed scheming off the top of his own company." 

* * *

Joan arrives home knowing full well there is disaster brewing behind the quaint shuttered windows and flowerboxes. There is no way her mother missed this evening's paper and therefore no way she is not going completely around the bend over it. Standing out on the gas lit sidewalk, Joan steels herself for what is to come. 

She is still reeling from Sherlock's pseudo proposal - honestly that was the last thing she expected him to say! And she does not know precisely how to feel about it either. Imagine being married to a man like Sherlock? Not even married really, simply living in the same house with a legal contract. 

Once she is over the initial shock of such an offer from a man she hardly knows, Joan has to admit it is probably one of the better offers she will ever get. She is both too wealthy and too foreign to marry for anything other than station. Not that Joan has not wished she could find happiness and perhaps even children someday. At least with Sherlock Joan knew he would not so much as look at her in any way she did not absolutely consent to. 

It is sad but what more can she really ask for? 

Shaking off circular thoughts, Joan marches up the front steps to meet her doom. 

"This is a disaster." Her mother says for the umpteenth time that night. She has been going nonstop for the better part of the last hour, seemingly without the need for breath or anyone else's input. 

John Watson sits silently beside his daughter through it all sipping on a cup of tea which smells strongly of spirits. Joan is now wishing she thought to do that before the tirade started. 

"It is the paper's fault not mine or Mr. Holmes'" She cuts in finally, voice sharp and exasperated. 

Her mother deflates a bit at that, wilting like a soufflé. "I know you would never do anything, Joanie. But innocence has nothing to do with this." 

Joan makes a noise at the back of her throat. "This whole thing is ridiculous. I don't care what people say. Let them talk. I am going to live my life my way, not shut up in a cupboard." 

Her mother's voice lowers to a whisper, which is far more dangerous than shouting. "You will do no such thing. You will not besmirch your father's good name by continuing on in this manner. I am sorry, but I cannot allow it." 

She leaps to her feet, her normally calm demeanor completely shattered in outrage. Anger curls her hands into fists and her lips press into a thin line. "Bloody hell! I should have just taken his fool headed proposal!" 

"What?" Both her parents yell after her as Joan storms out of the parlor and towards her rooms. 

* * *

Sherlock hopes Detective Bell will have information on their bald friend when he sees him tomorrow morning - or this morning, he has lost track of the time. He sent word to Gregson on what they had turned up earlier in Limehouse, so odds were there would be some new news. Then he could start digging into who lent Mr. King such a substantial sum. 

He has a rather good inkling as to why the money changed hands - though he needs more data to confirm his hypothesis - Sherlock simply does not know **_who_**. And he hates not knowing things. 

The sound of light footsteps makes him look up to see Kitty leaning against the doorway of the front parlor. With her candle and cream night robe she is transformed into an apparition from one of Poe's novellas. He does not believe in ghosts but the girl often makes him see them. 

"Do you truly want to marry her?" She asks seriously, watching his face carefully for reaction in the dim electric light of the room. 

Sherlock fidgets. "I have only known her a few days…" 

She is not letting him hedge around the subject. "That's irrelevant to you, you know a person's life story in minutes. And you wouldn't make an offer like that for anyone, so you must care about her." 

"Don't use the methods I taught you back on me at three in the morning." He grumbles glancing at the wall clock, though mostly he is irritated because her reasoning is sound. 

Kitty waits. 

Sherlock screws up his features and gets up to start pacing the room. "Perhaps I **_might_** have developed an attachment and perhaps I **_might_** like the idea of having Watson around to work, so I suggested the completely logical solution to the issue at hand." Talking about this kind of thing is physically draining. 

To his surprise Kitty smiles. "Okay good. Don't worry Sherlock you will win her over." With that she turns and heads back up to her sometimes bedroom in the attic. 

Sherlock watches her go wondering if this is all some sort of bizarre dream he is having.


	6. M

I love writing about these two dorks

I love you all for reading this silly fluff  
I love that I have three weeks left of college for my entire life (ie why i'm super behind writing)  
Sorry I'm rambling I'll stop...

P.S. I made a blog for just my fics. So if you want to know why I'm late updating or if you want to message me you can look there, without having to scroll through everything on my fandom blog. :)  
It's .com

Story Note:  
In this version of history The Second Opium War ended with far more equalized trade agreements between the Qing Dynasty and the British and French governments, allowing for better diplomatic and trade relations between China and Britain during Sherlock and Joan's time.

* * *

_**Ch. 6**_

_**-M.-**_

Joan arrives on his front stoop looking slightly more careworn than usual. There is an ivy leaf twisted in her hair and a small snag in her stocking, which he can see just below the hem line of her dress. She is also dressed like a full English woman for the first time since he has known her. Sherlock surmises the brown on brown walking dress is more in the spirit of espionage than fashion though. Not that he would know much about it. Clothing is such a mundane commodity. 

"You climbed down a trellis to get out of your house." Sherlock cannot help nodding in approval of her tactics. She will make an excellent detective. 

Joan frowns then realizes what he is looking at and plucks the piece of ivy from her ebony locks. "No wonder the cabbie was staring at me like I was a mad woman." She flicks the offending bit of vegetation away with a roll of her eyes. 

Sherlock has now calculated six variations of the expression on Joan and wonders if there are more. This one he would call 'good-natured self exasperation'. The one she uses most often would be the 'exasperation with things Sherlock says'. 

He steps aside to let her into 221b. "I assume then your parents did not take yesterday's events well?" He says it bluntly, but he hopes he has not upset her. 

If Sherlock wants Watson to stay he should try to be less of an ass. He can make an effort for her, can he not? Yes, if she is willing to accommodate his eccentricities then he can. 

Joan's shoulders slump and she shakes her head causing the small brown and gray topper pinned to her hair to wobble precariously. "That is putting it mildly." Her lips turn up in a sad facsimile of a smile. "I have put my father's reputation in danger." 

Sherlock stands ridged in the entryway unsure what to do. "You do not have to investigate -" 

"No." Joan says firmly, the steel of her usual personality brushing everything else aside. Her tone brooks no further discussion on the subject for which Sherlock is grateful. It is something he would prefer to avoid as well. 

"You just missed Detective Bell." He informs her, sweeping her into the parlor with a wave of his hands. "He had the information we were hoping for." 

Sherlock goes to the paper strewn table and snatches up a pathetically thin file. Bell was equally irritated with The Yard's shoddy amount of information when he delivered it, yet at least it has a name attached. He hands it over to Watson for inspection, carefully watching her eager curiosity. 

"Captain Sebastian Moran." Joan reads. "Dishonorable discharge, suspected assassin for hire. This is our bald man in the suit? I have never heard of him." 

Sherlock scoffs. "Hardly surprising, assassins are not usually considered proper table conversation for young ladies." 

She frowns at him over the file but does not argue his point. "So how do we find this Moran, then?" Joan challenges with a coy tilt of her head. 

He grins, clapping his hands together, glad they seem to have returned to their odd natural balance. A partnership, as surprising as that is for Sherlock, but he felt it in their first conversation on the godforsaken dance floor as clearly as he does now. Joan Watson is part of his world. 

"We speak to his employer." 

Her lips part in revelation forming a bow. "And who pray tell would that be? Last night you had no idea who our mystery man was, yet now you know his employer?" 

She is clearly upset by the thought of him withholding information and Sherlock finds himself feeling uncharacteristically guilty. That is idiotic, what did he do wrong? _This time anyway_. 

"Last night, the latest I had heard of Captain Moran's exploits placed him in France with a full head of hair! I suspected, but did not wish to leap to such conclusions until speaking to Detective Bell, since Scotland Yard has been keeping tabs on the man for some time now." 

"You might have at least told me what you suspected." 

He cannot think of a proper retort for that argument. Huffing in frustration, Sherlock marches past her to the kitchen to start making tea with an unwarranted level of aggression. Lucky Ms. Hudson kidnapped Kitty this morning for a shopping trip or they would both be berating his abuse of the poor kettle. 

Everything is spiraling out of Sherlock's perfectly controlled world. Watson challenges his every word and it is wonderful, she is better than any mystery or puzzle he has ever come across. And for all her intellectual stimulation his gaze still lingers on the flush of her cheeks. 

Sherlock seriously considers throwing himself out the second story window so he does not have to deal with this situation any longer. 

Wordlessly Joan follows him into the kitchen and starts setting out the tea cups, waiting pointedly for him to continue with his explanation. Every line of her body is a dagger amid directly at him. 

Again Sherlock reminds himself to be less of an ass. It is not her fault that he is (god forbid) acting like an average overly emotional fool. Sherlock is also unaccustomed to explaining his methods or slowing down for anyone. Except that really is not the correct word for it. Joan forces him to step back and widen his gaze, to see details he might otherwise have missed. Even in so brief a time together Sherlock would have to have been blind not to see that. 

"Apologies, Watson. Though I did not have the full data I should have told you where my thoughts were headed." He meets her gaze seriously, and then carefully pours the tea. 

"So then who is his employer?" Joan settles into one of the mismatched dining room chairs, arranging her cumbersome skirt so she can sit properly. With the way the whale boning pinches in the waist and swell of her breast it is a wonder she is able to speak, let alone breathe. 

"Moriarty." 

* * *

They meet Captain Gregson and Detective Bell outside the offices of King Shipping. Its black and gold imperial façade is crammed between an insurance agency and a law firm. The scent of old money practically wafts down the cobbled street warding off the unwanted lower classes. 

The Captain steps forward to help her from the carriage, while Bell tips his gray top hat to her. "Miss Watson it is a pleasure to see you again." 

Odd as it is Joan actually believes him. Gregson does not appear to find her leaving the domestic sphere threatening in the least bit. Most men would nearly die of outrage at the thought of a woman leaving behind such little accomplishments as painting and stitchery to 'invade' the work force. It is far worse than her already socially detrimental blue-stocking tendencies. 

She smiles in gratitude and steps out of the way as her partner leaps from the cab without any attempt for decorum. Honestly, people complain about her behavior while he acts like a wild man! **_And_** he is being obtuse on purpose, Joan can tell by that mischievous glint in Sherlock's eye. 

He revels in being an affront to society - which is probably why there is a bee colony on his roof and he is so willing to marry her. 

Christ, that is the last thing she wants to think about. Because the more she thinks about it, the more it does not seem like such a terrible idea. In fact - if Joan is being honest with herself - as she watches Sherlock's brow furrow in exasperation at whatever Captain Gregson is heatedly whispering at him, she finds the thought rather exciting. For several reasons she cannot quite admit to yet. 

Also Joan is sure her reputation is the subject of the current argument her male companions are trying to prevent her from overhearing. Chivalry and gallantry can often grate on her nerves but at least the two men, glaring disapprovingly at her partner, are well intentioned. Ignoring their concern seems the best option for the moment at least. 

* * *

They are shown into a meeting room and told to wait. Joan takes in the space with its dark wood paneling and heavy oil paintings. Everything screams dominance and money, and it makes her feel uncomfortably small. A feather light touch on her wrist distracts her swirling thoughts. Joan glances down in shock to find two of Sherlock's fingers resting carefully on top her gloves. He is not looking at her; instead his eyes are trained on the opposite door. 

Since he does not acknowledge the gesture Joan does not either, yet she feels emboldened for it. 

The door swings open and Sherlock removes his fingers as if they were never there. Everyone stands as Hubert King's second in command steps into the room. Alistair Mason is King's mirror opposite; tall, scarecrow thin, and balding. He has nervous twitching mannerisms and his watery eyes keep flicking back to Joan. 

"My assistant tells me you have further questions, Officers? I do assure you I have already told you all I know of this unfortunate matter." 

"I rather doubt that." Sherlock says wryly. 

"We were wondering if you would mind telling us the name of one of your investors." Captain Gregson intones, pressing his full authority. "A Mr. Moriarty." 

"Or you might have him in the books as a **_Miss_** Irene Adler." Joan put in demurely watching Mr. Mason go pale. 


	7. The Jade Seal

**Only one more chapter left to this story!**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

**Ch. 7**

**The Jade Seal**

Mr. King's partner caves like a half baked soufflé. It is actually rather pathetic. He hands over the unedited bank accounts to Grayson and Bell with the expression of a condemned man. 

"You have to protect me." Mr. Mason insists, lips twitching and fingers drumming nervously the surface of the table. "She will kill me." 

The Captain smiles at him without a trace of humor, it is more of a mocking baring of teeth than anything. "We will see what we can do, Mr. Mason." Clearly Grayson is tired of playing games. 

At least the books confirm what they need to know. 

"King Shipping's third largest investor: Professor Irene Adler." Sherlock says triumphantly with a smug grin. 

Joan shoots him a warning glance before he gets too carried away with his pathological need to right. He simply raises his eyebrows at her cheekily, which she ignores turning back to the paperwork. 

"Only female professor of London College." She muses quietly. "Seems such a shame to waste that." Joan wants to sigh and shake her head but keeps the impulse to herself. Her male colleges need not know what she is thinking. 

"Gotcha." Bell says making Joan glance up. He pulls a sheet of paper out from the others and smoothes it out over the table. 

Mr. Mason fidgets in his chair at the sight of it. 

This ledger page is different from the others. It is only a short list of entails and figures and dates. Joan frowns trying to decipher the messy coded scrawl, but she can make hide nor tail of it. 

"What does it mean?" She asks Bell curious. 

"It's King's loans!" Sherlock says jumping closer to peer over her shoulder to read. 

Joan freezes in surprise at his nearness. Sherlock's entire body is pressed against hers in his effort to examine the paper. Her heart is suddenly in her throat and she does not think he has even realized what he has done. 

Good lord her father would shoot him for the impropriety of it all. 

"Yes." Detective Bell says, giving Sherlock an annoyed glance for interrupting. He points to the letter 'M' next to '2..' on one line. "See the letter is the name of the person he borrows from and the number is how much. The two dots mean two thousand pounds, if it was one dot it would be two hundred pounds. 

Joan nods and shifts so Sherlock can see without looking over her shoulder. "These are all from 'M', Moriarty I would presume, but what about these last lines here." 

_'J.S. 40cases -8..'_

"Do the letters J.S mean anything to you?" Grayson directs at Mr. Mason pointedly. 

"I do not know anyone by those entails." He shakes his head. 

"What about one of your ships?" Sherlock cuts in. 

Recognition flashed across the other man's features brightening his watery gaze. "Yes. The Jade Seal! She is one of our primer cargo liners." 

"Oh that's it." Joan breathes, the pieces clicking into place. "Mr. King had to bring in 40 cases of something on the Jade Seal to take 8 thousand off his debt. This is about smuggling." 

"Precisely, Watson." Sherlock nods his approval of her deductive reasoning as she looks up at him in excitement. 

There is something thrilling about unraveling the tangled web of a mystery and she knows they are quite close to the center of this one. Hubert King was smuggling something into London for this 'M' person, who Sherlock believes is the criminal title of Miss Adler. King was killed by Moriarty's associate Sebastian Moran the day after the last shipment was scheduled according to the paper in Joan's hands. Yet the man's debt was not yet cleared. So why kill him? 

"This might just solve two cases." Sherlock says to Joan as the Captain and Detective Bell march Mr. Mason from the room. The man will end up spending the night in a cell 'for his protection'. 

"The other being?" She queries, wondering where he could be going with this. 

"Several of my Irregulars have reported an influx of both pistols and cocaine flooding the back alley sales in recent weeks." He murmurs softly so they will not be overheard as they step out into the hallway and head towards the entrance. 

"So you think that is what they were bringing in?" 

"Stands to reason, does it not?" 

* * *

London College is filled with the best and brightest young minds, or at least that is what the imposing architecture and parquet floors would have Sherlock believe. He knows it is more aptly a gathering of young imbeciles whose blood is most blue. Such places must be held in contempt considering they would not allow for female students. 

Watson obviously would have become a proficient doctor given the chance. Why waste talent? 

Afternoon shadows are already beginning to lengthen across the lawn of the university by the time the four of the them arrive. Only a handful of students mill about, seeming preoccupied with books and papers. Everyone else is in class learning the details of such useless topics as astronomy and the language of the flowers. What good could any of that possibly do them in a practical world? None, that's what. 

A flash of sun reflection off glass in one of the balconies above them catches Sherlock's attention. He pauses mid step trying to determine its origin, when the echoing report of rifle fire thunders over the lawn. All around them people scream. His heart clenches on instinct and then in terror as Joan cries out falling to her knees. 

"Watson!" Sherlock yells. 

"Up there!" Cries Bell pointing to the dark figure fleeing across the upper balcony. 

"Stay with her." The Captain orders Sherlock as he pulls out his American Army issue pistol hidden in his jacket. 

Both detectives take off in pursuit. Sherlock helps Joan to her feet and half drags her into the nearest building for cover. Joan keeps up an impressive string of curses going under her breath, until he sets her on a bench. Sherlock drops to his knees beside her. Joan's eyes are screwed shut in pain, her hands pressed firmly against her right shoulder. 

"Watson? Joan look at me." 

For the first time in his life he is close to panic - something he did not even know was possible - while at the same time a dark, homicidal rage rises up inside him like a tidal wave. Moran, for that surely is who must have done this, best hope the detectives get to him before Sherlock does. 

Joan forces open her dark eyes and Sherlock can see the intense pain in them. "It is merely a shoulder wound. I'll be fine." She pants out. 

Self loathing rolls threw him. This is his fault. That bullet was meant for him. Sherlock would have been standing directly in front of her if he had not paused for those blasted two seconds. And here she is trying to make **_him_** feel better about it! 

"Let me see." He says as gently as he can, reaching out to remove her fingers from the wound. There is already blood blossoming over the fabric of her dress. 

Joan does not fight him, only holding onto his wrists lightly as he unbuttons her collar. Her face appears perfectly calm, yet Sherlock can feel the shaking in her fingers. She is remarkably brave. Simply remarkable. 

"Really I am fine, Sherlock." Joan says as he inspects the injury carefully. She is right it is not life threatening. "Simply stop the bleeding and get me some alcohol for disinfectant." Her voice is oddly detached. 

Sherlock stares into her face, his brow furrowed intensely for a moment. Then he surges forward, with that tidal force, to kiss her like a dying man and she his last chance at life. He expects her to push him away, or to hit him, or something. The last thing Sherlock expects is to feel Joan kissing him back. 

Yet that is exactly what she does. 


	8. Now And Forever

LAST CHAPTER!

Can you believe it took me the whole season to finish this? Wow how do you lot put up with my epic slowness?  
I can never thank you enough for the amazing response this silly fic has gotten! :) Hugs for everyone!  
Thank you all so much 3333

PS. A sequel for this story is in the works...

* * *

_**Ch. 8**_

_**-Now And Forever-**_

Kitty tugs at the bindings of her dress, wriggling uncomfortably at the way it pinches in her ribcage. She glances over at the large standing mirror in the corner of the room to give her reflection a critical once over. She looks like a high society lady done up in light yellow fabric and mother of pearl buttons. Her hair is artfully curled and pined, and her reflection is at least five years older than she is because of it. 

"I don't see why I have to be gussied up like this." Kitty grumbles. "It's not like Sherlock or Joan would care." 

Ms. Hudson taps her lightly on the head with a folded fan. Her words are reproachful. "I have worked long and hard on this wedding and everyone present is going to look presentable. Even you **_and_** Sherlock." 

Kitty knows she will not be winning any arguments here - no one wins arguments against Ms. Hudson. The woman has been working none stop for the last month to throw together the perfect ceremony, one that will put the rest of London society to shame. Anyone who tried to stand in her way on the issue was mowed down with the efficiency of an English Battalion. 

Primarily the person Ms. Hudson was fighting was Sherlock, who held firmly to the belief that a wedding need only consist of the barest requirements of the judicial system. Anything more was 'erroneous'. And Kitty got the impression the only reason Joan was going along with the plan - besides to please her parents - was that it annoyed Sherlock. 

They are well suited for each other. 

After the capture and arrest of Sebastian Moran, and the announcement of their impending nuptials, the media has not ceased to let up. They are alternately singing the praises of the detectives or making insulating remarks about how Watson must surely be with child. 221B has never been the center of so much attention, even when Sherlock has assisted Monarchs. 

That is also why Ms. Hudson is determined to throw the world's greatest wedding. Truth be told, Kitty supports the idea whole heartedly. She hates people gossiping about her erstwhile family - though she wishes it did not mean wearing a fluffy dress. 

"Now let's go get Joan, it is nearly time." Ms. Hudson hugs her in excitement before rushing out the bedroom door, leaving Kitty to trail after her. 

* * *

Joan stares at her reflection in the mirror, while her mother busily pins pearls into her plated hair. She still is not quite sure how Ms. Hudson got her dress made so quickly, since it is rather unusual by English standards. Honestly Joan would have loved to see the seamstress' face when she got the order for it. 

For of course it is red. 

She absently spreads her fingers over the dyed lace and silk, as if remind herself this is actually happening. The cut of the dress is distinctly western, for so is Joan at heart, with a beaded corset and sweeping train. But even she could never wear a white gown to what is supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Somehow Ms. Hudson knew this without ever having to be asked, and so the silk currently pooling in swaths around her ankles is a bright crimson for good fortune. 

Joan bites back a smile at the thought. 

"I saw that grin." Remarks her mother with a conspiratorial smile of her own. "Are you excited? I was a ball of nerves when I married your father." 

Joan meets her mother's gaze in the mirror. "I thought you were still mad at Sherlock?" 

Mary Watson laughs brightly. "Oh that is just your father. Even if all this publicity has done his business wonders in diplomacy. He will get over it though, since Mr. Holmes is quite charming and well connected. You know he had me over for tea last week?" 

Joan does distinctly remember Sherlock begging Ms. Hudson for help in the matter. She tries to imagine her soon to be husband as 'charming' to anyone other than her and really cannot. Most would say something more like a 'loveable human disaster', at best. Sherlock is a bit too manic for most people. 

"I know he has been hoping to smooth things over. He does not wish you to be angry with my choices." Now Joan does smile, recalling Sherlock's endless pacing on the subject. 

After Moran was captured in his attempt to flee the city and arrested for the murder of Hubert King, and they realized Adler/Moriarty had slipped from their grasp, certain conversations had to be revisited. 

"I want you to stay." Sherlock had blurted out as they began packing away the case notes. 

Joan turned to face him and took in his frightened rabbit appearance. Emotions were difficult for him to express, he looked strained. Her heart pounded in her chest at his words. Their kiss was still at the forefront of her mind, and the feeling of his fingers in her hair. 

"I mean if - if you wished to remain here." Sherlock began to ramble, flushing deeply. "I would be amenable to that - umm… if you were amenable." 

Joan smiled slowly, happiness bubbling up inside her chest. "Yes." 

He blinked. "Yes?" 

She took his hands in hers. "Yes." 

* * *

Sherlock watches Joan speaking to her brother and sister-in-law, who have come down from Kent. Kitty is being lead around the dance floor by Joan's father, stumbling in her new shoes. The laughter and candle light make Joan's features glow, which he finds oddly mesmerizing. 

Her crimson gown shines brighter than anything else at the reception party. It is the subject of many whispered debates Sherlock has already overheard tonight. Some find it daringly beautiful, some shockingly outrageous, and a few question its implications of her compromised virtue. Not many Londoners know that red is simply the traditional wedding color in Chinese culture. Idiots. 

His wife - good lord what a concept - spots him eyeing her and smiles like starlight which nearly stops the beat of his heart. When exactly did he become a rambling poet? How embarrassing. She turns back to her conversation leaving him wishing they could return to 221B now. 

"Sherlock Holmes married, I never would have guessed it." Captain Grayson's voice brought him back to the present. 

Grayson and Bell materialize on either side of him in his hidden nook under the shadows of the trees. Bell presses a glass into his hand with a brilliant grin. Sherlock sniffs the tumbler gingerly - soda water, at least his friends know better than to apply him with spirits. Grayson claps him on the shoulder good naturedly, and he is surprised by the contact. 

"Congratulations." Bell says. "You certainly married up." 

"Indeed." Sherlock hurries to change the subject. "No word on the wareabouts of Miss Adler yet?" 

The Captain frowns. "Gone with the tides." 

"Stop worrying about it." Bell insists in a teasing voice. "You have got a beautiful woman who for some inexplicable reason wants you. Now go dance with her before I do." 

They snatch the glass back from his hands and collectively shove Sherlock towards Joan. He stumbles into the lights, shooting them an irritated glare over his shoulder as he straightens his tuxedo. 

Sherlock taps Joan lightly on the shoulder, noticing the way her collar carefully hides the scar of the gunshot wound there. "Might I have this next dance?" He says stiffly knowing his face is warm. 

Joan tilts her head thoughtfully, her red lips curving up. "You are actually going to ask this time?" 

"It is better than setting the curtains on fire." He grins recalling their first conversation. 

Joan laughs, leaning up to kiss him, while her brother and sister-in-law look on in confusion. He does not blame them. 

"Much better." Joan agrees taking Sherlock's hands. 


End file.
